


Where is Your God?

by FoxdieDecoy



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Drugged Sex, M/M, Necrophilia, Rape, Scat, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxdieDecoy/pseuds/FoxdieDecoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally for my friend. Batterie, where the Batter gets overdosed on heroin, and Zacharie gets to do what he's wanted to for a while, except it doesn't exactly go the way as planned. A little grimy, as I have tried to tag it. Most fics on here are very gentle and don't feel very real to me so I can't tell you this is clean and shiny. Drugging, vomit, drool, light piss, light scat, sacrilegious talk, and a bit more graphic content than usual. Read and review! First fic on here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where is Your God?

It was three in the morning, an unheard of hour for the hero of this story to be awake. It was dark from the view of the window, bringing the only contrast to a white room, perfectly kept. The sheets always pressed and made, without even so much as a wrinkle.

Rain was falling heavy outside, spattering against the looking glass, breaking the silence his room always kept. It was always so quiet here. No need ever for words, or the indication of movement. Only silence, pressing silence, uncomfortable and heavy.

Heavier than the moments of silence for the deceased, or the sound that fills a church in prayer. Eyes followed the silence. Tortured eyes, always looking at His beloved children.

A crucifix always hung clean and pure above the always-perfectly-kept bed, with Jesus Christ bound to it, staring down over the bedroom. Forever protected, forever judged. The eyes of God were in this room, watching over His child. The one that never betrays or questions. A man white, just like his room, perfectly pressed and clean, like his room. 

Tonight was not a night like always. Tonight was very different, and if not for what was happening, the hero of this story would be close to a mental breakdown over the difference. 

Those lovely pressed sheets had a few drops of blood, with vomit bled through the threads, very wet, with a burnt orange hue. They were half-yanked onto the floor, mattress crooked. The spotless floorboards carried dirt, and drops of saliva caked between the creases of the wood. What was worst was the sounds.

The silence was filled in this room, with sounds that should never escape this hero's lips. There were a few other students standing around the outside of the door, with hands coming up over their mouths in slow shock and concern for what they were hearing from the white room.

Our hero was not so much of a hero, tonight.

He was on his stomach against the floor, body dragged behind him. He was up on his elbows, staring at the exit from his once-sanctuary. There was a roll to his eyes, head down too far, forcing his eyes a little too far up in glance for it to be anything but painful. His head shook, neck struggling to maintain the weight of it. The man's chin was shiny and wet, breath smelling acidic and foul. The breaths coming from his chest were in shaky, quick huffs, completely uncontrolled. He looked more pale than usual, looking a bit sickly, with dark bruises under his eyes, and a clammy texture to the skin itself, and an odd, yellowish pigment in the crevices of his face.

Unleashed sounds came from him here and there, shaken, guttural groans, followed by the undignified dripping of saliva from an open mouth. Another struggle to crawl to the door. He moved a quarter of a foot. Sad thing was, he had another eight feet to go.

One of the sleeves of his baseball uniform was rolled up, a nasty purple bubble formed on the bend of his arm, with blood and pus squeezing out every time he moved the joint together. God wasn't here tonight, yet the eyes of Christ still stayed fixed on the figure dragging his body slowly across the floor.

There was another pair of eyes in the room. Just eyes. They stood at the head of the bed, belonging to a body that was perfectly concealed, except for a head of dark hair and a pair of tanned ears. The rest of the stranger's face was hidden behind a mask, eyeholes showing brown eyes staring down at the figure dragged out on the floor in front of him.

This stranger was standing still in audience, wearing a long, white hoodie, loose jeans and sneakers. His hands were covered in black, perforated gloves, right one holding something in his fingers. It's a syringe, with the plunger all the way down. Eyes watched, firmly and silently, replacing the judgement of God in this room.

Poor Benoit, he's overdosed on heroin and infected from a student's dirty needle. This masked boy was just watching him struggle and writhe against the floor.

The athlete's head just shook, trying to stay up, ignore the sounds he was hearing. It sounded like the Angels were singing him a lament already, warped and melancholy. The room wasn't staying still. He was burning hot, sweat dripping down his face. All the regions of his body felt like they were curling up and rotting, heartbeat going insane.

"S'il vous plaît..." He lowly, and weakly spat out onto the floor, mouth and chin curling in agony. It was all he could say, and it was what he had never said before. Why should he have had to? It's human nature to beg in the face of danger. To Benoit, only ever if he's about to die.

The sound of metal hitting the floor should have been so much quieter, but to the batter, it sounded like a safe cracked the floorboards, messing them further, causing him to cringe up. All the boy did was drop the syringe. Heavy footsteps walked up to Benoit's body, all too fast for the drugged zealot to understand. His cap was already knocked off, with a head of platinum hair quivering in front of Zacharie.

A gloved hand came beneath the man's jaw, yanking it up. A short, mild yell came, followed by a sputter, and a gasp of air, staring out at nothing in fear. This sudden movement was making him sick. The cold sweat grew on him, and before he knew it, the corners of his mouth were pushed down, mouth watering up, lips pushing out before he forced his head down, and vomited on the floor beneath him.

Sober, scrutinous eyes watched, and then looked down Benoit's back, down to his prize. The gloves came down, and went beneath the body, picking hips up to unbutton tight baseball trousers, gently and meticulously, and once his task was finished, he dropped them. Hipbones dug into the floor, causing the tenant to cry out, head down, the aroma of vomit filling the cone of his nose.

His trousers and boxer briefs were tugged down at the same time, showing off a thin, squared posterior. It was white, just as white as his room, and smooth, just like the press of his sheets. Just as Zacharie had imagined.

His black fingers shook with awe and appreciation as they reached out to the skin, pressing against it, watching the plush flesh bulge a thin cast around his fingers. He let out a soft, slow gasp, and a breath in, thumbs rubbing over the cheeks, watching it spread apart slightly, teasing with what hid beneath them.

Zacharie decided to indulge, taking it slow, painfully slow, and do just that, tease himself with what held itself before him; drugged, delirious, and best of all, entirely helpless. He pushed the cheeks up, shaking them slightly to jostle them, watch them move under his fingertips. He gulped down a thick gob of saliva, finding what he was craving to be perfect, in every way.

Benoit was staring down, with wide eyes, drool snapping from the point of his upper lip, and the dip of his lower one to join in the pool of puke below him. Shaking heavily, his head slowly turned to look behind him. He could just barely make out his assailant, but worst of all, he could see Jesus, staring at him from his crucifix. His head dropped, and his breath huffed into a heavy pace again, feeling thick thumbs push his ass apart.

Another slow gasp came from the bulky teenager, straddling Benoit's legs. It was one of the only traces of color on this pious man. Perfectly pink, and puckered out, with a musk that managed its way under Zacharie's mask, strong enough to make him tear up, and for his mouth to water again.

"Oh, mon dieu..." Zacharie breathed out, half-honest, half-mocking, staring at it, rolling the smooth, unpursed sphincter with his thumb. "Regardez ce que vous avez été caché loin de moi, mon amigo...." He huffed out to himself again, swallowing heavy again. He drew his thumb away for only one reason. Once it was slicked up with saliva and acid, he brought it back, rolling it around again, watching the way it shined in the synthetic lighting of Benoit's dorm.

"Ayez...pitié de moi..." Zacharie heard, low and shaky, voice cracking a little in weak distress. That only made him shudder against the baseball player, and slide his thumb in. Benoit stilled up, grabbing at the floor once, letting out a quiet huff. Even through the glove, Zacharie felt the heat and wetness of his victim's poor asshole. It was sick with overdose, juiced up because it didn't know what to do with its body in this state.

The thumb pushed in deep, and pulled out slow, ear listening to the wet shift of pulling out of a tight, suctioned, wet hole. Zacharie's head fell back in pleasure, thumb pushing in again and rolling around, feeling all of the ribbons of tissue follow his finger in a circular motion.

"Aie pitié...de moi, mon...seigneur..." Benoit breathed out, forehead resting in a shallow pool of vomit and spit. The muscles of his asshole squeezed on the digit whenever it touched on a nerve, the sound of little bubbles popping around Zacharie's fingers as a wave of slightly brown-tinted juice pushed out around his thumb, sliding down the valley between Benoit's cheeks.

Zacharie's breath hitched, head tiled up, eyes staring down at platinum hair, other hand moved to unbutton his jeans. He fumbled them open in a slow but rushed effort, pushing down the waistband of his underwear so a standing erection sprung out, a foul, unclean musk joining the air with blood, pus, piss, shit, spit, and vomit. He groaned quietly from the cocktail of smells, getting drunk off it.

He drew his thumb out, looking at the fluid push out and sputter down the crease, the rushing thoughts of that swilling around his cock making a dull throb course through it. "Êtes-vous prêt, mon pauvre amigo ...? ... Êtes-vous prêt à perdre votre dieu?" He mumbled out, manic and slow, dirty thumb pushing from the base of his dick to angle himself down, and slide right in to the tight little stinkhole presented to him.

"Non-- non-- pas ça ..." Benoit groaned out, the last two words getting louder mid-entry. He winced, and shook, listening to the sound of Zacharie groaning out loud and animal-like, burying in until a black carpet scratched against white skin. It was Zacharie's turn to shake, his cock twitching and swelling in the older man's rectum. It was insanely hot, to the point of burning him, but he didn't care.

"Vous avez attrapé une fièvre, mon amigo..." Zacharie huffed out amusedly. "Je me demande combien de temps que vous avez." He looked down, drawing back and dipping his cock back into him, starting up a slow pace. It wasn't in consideration for Benoit, he just wanted to drag this out to the bitter end.

"Laissez-moi tranquille, s'il vous plaît..." He groaned out quietly, and if Zacharie heard him, he didn't respond. He thrusted on, building up over time, vision blurring with sick pleasure, his own form beginning to sweat under his hoodie. Zacharie's hands were gripping onto Benoit's ass hard, eyes glaring down at the indentation around his gloved digits. 

"Où est Dieu maintenant? Où est le Christ maintenant?" Zacharie asked forcefully, jostling Benoit's hips with ragged pleasure, jamming into his newly unclean body. "Je ne pense pas qu'ils sont là ... Peut-être qu'ils n'existent pas." He chuckled out, his fat form shaking against a thin one, fucking the zealot like a pig, all but drooling down on the clothed back of his prize.

"S'ils le font, ils doivent être cachés dans votre trou du cul ... nous ferions mieux de regarder de plus près, mon amigo...!" He groaned out, suddenly forcing his pace into an all-time high, absolutely rocking him. Benoit's head picked up with heavy effort, turning to look behind him. All he could make out was a blur, a head of dark hair bent over, and the dark image of a cross on his wall. He stared at it, breath light and shallow despite the heavy, depraved pace driving into his ass.

"Où es-tu... quand j'ai besoin de vous ...?" He breathed out, silent to Zacharie, before he winced up, and turned his head, and vomited once more, body tensing up with it. Simultaneously, his rectum squeezed down on the thick cock jammed in it, milking it, making the foreigner groan out and chuckle. The both of them stared down, and one of them gasped out in weak horror. There was blood in this batch of vomit, heavily so.

"Est-ce que cela vous fait mal, mon ami?" Zacharie breathed out with a smile to his voice, pounding into the batter. "Tu deviens... froid." He mumbled out, finding that Benoit was going unresponsive. This is the moment he dreamed of. Getting God to abandon this man for one night. It turned out that he really needed God, because obviously he was beginning to die.

Zacharie kept going and kept going, the cold and dryness that was coming around his dick a sure sign that Benoit was but a corpse now. He reached down and gripped at his hair, yanking his head up. His back arched, unnaturally, and unresponsive. Brows furrowing beneath the mask, he get out an angered sound, shoving his face down again. It slammed against the floor, the sound of his nose breaking, head thudding against the puddle, where he laid there still.

It wasn't enough for Zacharie to keep it up. He growled, and yanked out of him, finding that he ripped him. In death, Benoit had tightened up back to normal, choking the teen. He tore him open again, a couple of scraps of skin stuck to his dirty cock, brown fluid dried on it, making it irritated and uncomfortable. He shook his head and kept on going, palm flying over the length again and again to try to get his release.

He groaned and groaned, reaching out dumbly to turn Benoit's face to see it. Surely enough, he could see the look of vacancy in him and God, did it fuel him. He smirked a little under his mask, huffing and gasping, voice starting up a small staccato of sounds, before he winced, and groaned, balls tensing as he shot his cum all over the ass of his victim, and jersey he was wearing, marking it with his taint.

As he came down, he could feel the burn of what he had done itch at his cock, causing it to go limp quicker. He sighed, doing up his jeans and standing, leaving everything in it's place. "Ce n'était pas aussi gratifiant que je voulais que ce soit." Zacharie spat, huffing and turning to get stopped by the glare of Christ on Benoit's wall.

"...Vous m'avez demandé une fois, ce que c'était que je croyais po." The teen mumbled out, staring at the sufferer on the cross. His mask turned down to the corpse. "Mon amigo, je crois que les humains sont des animaux aussi." He chuckled, making his way to leave. It didn't matter what way, as he wasn't going to stick around for much longer.


End file.
